Blood Oath
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Bradshaw regrets the oath he made to the Devil, but is there any way out? No slash. Bradshaw and LoD. Complete.


In a dream

He came along and told me

"Your time has come

Your soul belongs to me"

It's the time of the oath

The time of the oath

My sweetest memories die in the cold

It's the time of the oath

See me covered with sadness

And I'll soon wish to die

When that overcoming madness

Is eating up my mind

}x{

Blood Oath

John Bradshaw Layfield refused to admit just how drunk he was, even though his feet were clearly telling him. His cowboy boots scuffled against the carpet, nearly catching at one pointed toe, as he weaved down the hallway. Occasionally he stretched out his arm to brace himself against the wall, which seemed to be undulating strangely like some sort of fun house illusion. But he wasn't that drunk, really. He'd only sat at the bar for a few hours, and spent most of the time looking into the honey-brown liquid that nearly matched the color of his eyes, even in the liquid state of the drink. Some of the shots had disappeared, burning pleasantly down his throat, but not that many, he kept telling himself.

Maybe he could have been a little more convinced if he could make his eyes stop seeing double, and actually focus them on the point which he was precariously heading to. That point he was stumbling himself to was a bit blurry itself, the number of his room scrambled and left floating incoherently in his head somewhere.

Fine, maybe he was drunk, but at least there was good reason. Things were getting far too deep. When he'd made this pledge he hadn't realized what he was getting into. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. John always considered himself an intelligent man, one who carefully weighed all pros and cons before making any sort of deal, before signing his name onto any dotted line, especially one required in life and blood. It was such a high price to pay but the man who had coaxed the signature out of him had a way of talking which was nearly hypnotic. Not only his voice and the words it chose to speak, but his eyes. Damn those entrancing, unearthly, gray-green depths. John had never looked into eyes like that, and with a shiver he made a mental note to himself to never again.

He hadn't felt quite like himself ever since the day he'd sealed that contract. In fact, the more days that faded from the calendar, the more he seemed to fade away from himself. It was as if this commitment had become some slow consuming disease, and the possibilities he imagined as an end result often kept him up nights, often drinking, sometimes just pacing and jumping at the cold shadows that seemed to creep into his still room.

He considered asking for a way out, hell, even a couple of times he had considered begging-on his knees even. A man of Bradshaw's standing was not easily lowered to such positions, but the man who bound him was even more extraordinary, and not really a man at all. He was some unearthly specter, some demon, some shadow within a cell of flesh that felt cold and dead, and blood that ran even colder.

Bradshaw shuddered, and fell against one of the walls. A smashed, unintelligible line of curses were fumbled from his lips as he groped for a picture that he'd knocked off the wall and landed on the floor. In another instant, he decided it didn't matter, and focused on the more important task of hoisting himself back up onto his two feet. It almost resulted in another tumble, but at the last moment he managed to balance well enough to keep from a second header. There was a crunch of glass as his boot heel inadvertently stamped down onto the fallen picture, but he didn't even seem to notice. His mind was elsewhere, and still haunted, even among the numbing fog of copious amounts of hard liquor.

With a clumsy swipe of his hand he brushed some of the long, black hair away from his sweaty face, sighing as he set out to continue to…where ever it was he'd been heading for. Confused, he glanced around the hallway, groaning as the doors around him seemed to just multiply and swim teasingly.

_Braaaadshaw._

John startled, this time toppling over against the opposite wall. He managed to brace himself against it and not knock anything askew that time. His heart thundered in his chest, hammering away crazily at his sternum as the sudden whisper of his name faded. He blinked his wide eyes, and let out a long sigh.

"Ga'damn, ah rully am fuckin' drunk!" He muttered, his knees shaky, as he continued to lean heavily against the wall.

Usually the only voice he heard while trashed was his own loud yammering of some song or bits of song done horribly off key, with his unmistakable Texan drawl made even more pronounced. He had never heard another voice, and especially not that one, and not like that. Had he really downed that much?

After the panic of that voice wafting through his senses had subsided a little, he took a couple of cautious steps. Something in his clouded memory told him he needed to go to the elevator and up a couple of floors in order to reach his room. He only wanted to find himself there soon, so he could flop onto his bed and pass the hell out—preferably for a long time.

John made it to the end of the hallway without further catastrophe. He jabbed his finger at the button with the arrow on it, and only jammed his finger into the wall. He tried a second time, the tip of his tongue peeking from out the corner of his mouth as he zeroed all of his staticy concentration onto the dancing button in front of him.

"Ha!" He cried in triumph when he hit the button that time, and it lit orange, followed by a soft ding as the polished doors opened. He practically fell into the empty car and next tried to remember which floor, and then press the correct button for said floor. Never had he been so frustrated over an elevator, and probably never had he cursed at an inanimate object as much as he did then. With a tired sigh he leaned back into the corner and closed his eyes as the elevator made a slow ascent.

After a few moments, he cracked his eyes open to watch the light above the door. It blinked above the number 3 and he moved towards the door ready for it to open. He was confused when the elevator didn't stop, but instead progressed up to another floor. He stepped back and looked at the tiny numbered buttons to the side of the doors, making sure he'd selected the right floor to begin with. His eyes grew wide as in fact the third floor was not selected. The round button should have been lit up to tell him so, but instead the tiny light danced from one button to the next, lighting up multiple floor selections as though an unseen finger was just randomly poking at them for fun. He slammed the butt of his hand onto the panel, hoping that would remedy the flashing lights. When it didn't, he tried again and again until some of the buttons were broken under his palm which had at some point become a fist.

The elevator just kept rising on its own accord, and if he wasn't mistaken it was going faster. Suddenly, John felt very sober. Sweat popped out over his face, he could feel the nervous trickles of the hot wetness rolling down his forehead and jaw line as his eyes wildly watched the madness. He stabbed at the emergency button again and again, but it did absolutely nothing.

The elevator whined as it sped up, the cables making ominous noises that he could hear even through the four walls that enclosed him. The four tiny, constrictive, walls that enclosed him like a coffin. Those thoughts were not helping his situation at all, and his fingernails scrabbled at his throat as it suddenly felt tightened.

Suddenly, the car jerked and came to an abrupt stop. John huddled in the corner, every part of him shaking and shivering uncontrollably. He felt like his legs had become water and any strength to stand had vacated them. It had better come back as soon as those doors opened though, because he planned on running the fuck out of there. However, the doors stayed closed.

John waited. The only sound in the small space was the loud gasp of his ragged breathing. It was like some horrible kind of torture, waiting just to hear that soft ding that would give him freedom, yet with each passing moment there was nothing but wheezing and the reminder that he felt closed in, more and more so as each taunting second dragged by like they were hours.

Finally, John managed to take an unsteady step and reach for the door button. He was convinced that they weren't going to open on their own, and had at last felt the smallest bit of courage to move and try manually. The doors still stayed stubbornly closed, as if paralyzed by some technical nervous system failure—as he nearly was himself.

He tried again, and again, and again, almost sobbing in despair as the doors stayed locked up and unmoving. He dragged his trembling hand over his face, smearing his alcohol laced sweat with the few tears that had leaked from the corners of his terrified eyes. He closed them, and took a few deep breaths. _You're drunk, and this is all a dream. You've probably made it to your bed already and passed out and this is just one horrible—Bradshaaaaaaaaw!_

John's eyes flew open, and the panic that had began to subside just a little came back full blown, screaming against the inside of his skull and the cage of his heart.

"No!" He cried out, his nails scrabbling at the numbers on the elevator wall as the car lurched and shuddered as though even it was in fear of the voice that broke Bradshaw's attempt at self reassurance.

With a loud, shrill, creak that was akin to the sickness of nails dragging against glass, the doors opened, seeming to struggle against their tracks. Bradshaw dove for them, but with an abnormal speed and force they closed, catching his fingers in the crevasse of light that teased him with freedom. A scream tore from his throat as he yanked his hand away, cradling the damaged fingers against his chest, as he stumbled back to the corner again and knelt there. He tried to move them a little and winced, watching as a couple of the nails turned a purple-black and blood seeped from beneath the cracked cuticles.

The pain was forgotten in the next moment however, as the car began to plunge downwards. John could only curl into a ball and cinch his eyes tightly closed as the elevator plummeted, sending that sick feeling tumbling around his stomach. The only comfort he could imagine was that this was the part of the dream where you felt you were falling, and then suddenly jerked awake. _Please God, please!_

There was a low, familiar chuckle. The words were not needed to convey what the owner of that laughter and Bradshaw both new—that this voice, and this power playing with his life, was certainly not God. God at times knows mercy, but the Lord of Darkness does not.

John clamped his hands over his ears, silently praying, something he hadn't done for quite a long time, all the while knowing it would not help. His name kept coming to him, from nowhere and everywhere, whispered and shouted, the multiple Bradshaw's overlapping and falling over each other until finally there was nothing but a deafening roar, or perhaps that was only his own screaming. He tried desperately to drown out the many and yet singular voice. He jammed his fingers into his ears so hard it hurt, but still there was no reprieve from the torment. With a wretched howl he dragged his nails over the sides of his face, his mouth in a downward grimace, pleading with his tears for it to stop, please fucking stop!

The elevator car continued its increasing and seemingly never ending spiral downwards. Surely the car had passed the bottom floor, sped through the basement, and was now hurtling through purgatory on its way to an even greater horror. There would be fire, and a dark, towering, devouring force waited for John Bradshaw Layfield with eerie, uncaring, eyes that could make hearts halt and souls sob with only one glance.

John rolled out of the corner, falling onto his knees, and grinding his face into the carpet of the elevator floor. His tears were absorbed by the tough fabric, and his bloody nails scratched at the fibers as he groveled for just a shred of grace to deliver him from this nightmare.

Just as he was sure there was no end, the air was forced from his lungs, his frame jarred, as the car slammed to a stop. There was a subtle ding, and it took him some time to place that sound. He was so badly shaken, still curled in a prostrate position, trembling like a frightened puppy, that his mind could not quickly process it for what it was—the doors. He was almost afraid to raise his eyes and look. He was terrified to think that he would raise his face to look upon the entrapping doors and see them mockingly close again. He swallowed hard, fighting to scrape up a bit of courage to at least glance at the doors.

He had almost managed to gather enough, when a far worse possibility assaulted his mind. He was too late to do anything about it, as he did look up at the doors. He really expected a long, icy, shadow to fall over him, and for his tearful gaze to fall upon that demon which he'd made himself servant to. The breath that was painfully pent in his lungs whooshed out of him when the truth was made known to his honey-colored eyes. There was no shadow, only a hallway with dim lights and rows of doors, one which was most likely his own.

Feeling much better, he sat up on his knees, and ran a hand through his now soaked, raven tresses. It made sense to him now, he'd obviously gotten into the elevator and then passed out, and was now coming to. Still, he couldn't quite get his legs to work, so he crawled out of the elevator and he almost tossed any shred of dignity away in order to kiss the floor of the safe hallway, but then again he managed to rethink it before his lips actually met the carpet.

After a few moments of kneeling in the deserted hallway, he got slowly to his feet, testing them to make sure they could support him. He was satisfied enough, all that was left over was a little bit of lingering shaking, but they were sturdy enough to move him to his room which now being scared sober, he was able to recall the number of.

Those numbers were so comforting to him when he saw them in raised black against the wood grain of his door, and his hand wrapped around the knob. He rummaged for his keycard, slid it through the reader, and smiled happily when the tiny light flicked green and allowed him access. That king sized bed was still calling out his name and he was going to burrow under the covers and sleep so deeply that no dreams would bother him, certainly not that nightmare that had attacked him when he'd blacked out in the elevator.

John stepped inside, not bothering to shut the door as he leaned against the wall and tugged at one of his boots. Before he could get it off, the door slammed closed eliciting a yelp from him, as he fell over and onto his ass. He blinked up from that vantage point, shaking his head, telling himself he must have hit the door, or someone else closed it, or—_John…Bradshaw…Layfield._

He bowed his head, hearing the voice now as more than a disembodied tease. It was _there _he could tell it was. His lips trembled and he choked on his breath as the shadow he feared would consume him earlier did fall over him. It sent an icy trickle down his spine, and subsequently through each nerve that branched away from it, until his body felt numb and frostbitten.

"Hello, Bradshaw." The voice spoke low and gravely. The tone and slow pronunciation of each word made John's mouth go dry as his fear could only grow, threatening to swallow him whole. "I've heard amongst the ramblings of yer weak, human mind, that you have considered to ask me for a way out of yer contract."

Fingertips ghosted over the top of John's ducked head, brushing against the long inky hairs, and turning them white. It felt as though a chill wind had swirled around him, and drilled into his pores.

"Bradshaw, there is _no_ way out. You signed yerself into my service of yer own free will. You signed yer name to my parchment in the very blood that runs through yer veins. There is no return, Bradshaw. There is no way to be saved."

John couldn't help the whimper that whined past his lips. Tears crawled from the corners of his eyes again, wetting his cheeks and dripping onto his jeans. He tried to find some words, any words, but they were tangled up in his throat and made themselves only unknown in a moan.

"That's right Bradshaw, feel the bondage of yer promise, feel the heavy chains of yer servitude."

"The-that's all I c-c-can feel!" John wailed, his voice disintegrating into sobs. "I can't feel mahself anymore. Ah can't feel the people around me, ah can't feel happiness, ah can't feel contentment, joy, love, ah can't feel anything and ever'one ah care about is fallin' away from me. All mah friends pass by like ah'm becoming a ghost…mah wife…Ron…" John couldn't go on, and let his speech be usurped by his weeping.

"You knew what I promised you if you gave yerself to me. I promised you success, a future, money, only traded for one payment…yer soul. You signed, Bradshaw, and as time creeps steadily on yer soul is slowly drained from yer worthless body and taken into my possession. The loss of feeling is merely a side effect of becoming a hollow shell. That's right, a hollow, wealthy, successful, _shell_. But Bradshaw, look at me Bradshaw!"

Those cold fingers wrapped around John's chin and tilted it upwards. Before John could draw his eyes away or close them, they had connected to that stare that conjured the deepest, darkest, despair in John's wasted being. Yet, he could not look away. All things dead, all things tormented, all things eternal and damned were reflected and projected from those gray-green orbs.

"Bradshaw, Bradshaw, tsk. What else did you expect?"

The silence hung between them as an answer. John couldn't even hear the labored effort of his own breathing, and he wondered if maybe he hadn't died already. Maybe he'd just gotten lost in those strange, consuming eyes, and had ceased to live any longer.

"M-ercy." The word was a gasp, a plea that John hadn't even realized he'd made. It seemed to have come from nothing, and it just sounded like the most pitiful cry from the most suffering wretch under the foot of this black entity.

"Mercy?" The Lord tilted his head subtly, and from the pit of his long coat produced a rolled scroll. His nimble, pale fingers unfurled it and held it close to John's face. "Yer contract, Bradshaw. Do you see that word written among these lines?"

John's eyes scanned over the inky lines of the damning pact, and about half way through the script just blurred beneath his tears. He did not have to finish reading it to know that there was no mercy to be found there, or to know that his initials were at the bottom, sealing his fate in dark dried blood that had once glimmered crimson in candle light.

"Ah s-see…" John stuttered. "Ah see my fate, locked. There ain't no key made to turn the tumblers an' set me free."

"Correct." The Lord of Darkness intoned, and rolled the scroll up, and stowed it away next to all his others.

There were legions of dying souls promised to his keeping. There were masses of slowly hollowing people dedicated to his service. There were followers all over the world bearing his mark in secret places, in all languages, their names signed in a universally ruby life-force.

Why should John Bradshaw Layfield be spared?

The only flame of hope he had left was that one day his body too would surrender to his Lord, and then there could be peace. There was no premature ending, after all. The Dark Reaper carries the scythe, and one day he will claim the body which matches that of the soul that will have long since withered from it. John only wept, praying that day to draw near.

His prayers were unanswered, as the presence of The Dark Lord left him alone, only to see the soft light of a new day birthed through blinds over the window. The sunrise would be forever streaked in tears, the greeting of another day forever marked with an agonized lament.


End file.
